In no particular order...
1. Yesterday we were invited to the home of some friends for lunch. Barak had a ball, playing with their enormous box of cars and eating, as is his habit at such occasions, nothing but challah, kiddush juice, and dessert. We finally left at around four, when it was getting close to mincha time. I had brought the double stroller, and was trying to effect the transfer of Barak, Iyyar, diaper bag, and blanket to same. Barak, suspicious of what might lie after the stroller ride (the Dreaded Night Night, perhaps?) was walking down the stairs verrrry. slowwwly.
"Barak, could you please come on? It's really cold out."
"Iss not cold."
"Barak, it's about thirty degrees today. That's cold."
"Ackshully, iss freezing."
2. Similarly, on a walk to playgroup, still termed "camp" by Barak:
[Blast of wind] "Ooh, it's cold! Barak, is it so cold?"
"Yeah. Iss a little chilly."
3. This morning, at about 2 am, I was sitting up nursing the baby when I heard Barak start to wail. Usually he goes right back to sleep on his own, but this time he didn't. It sounded like a bad dream. I poked my husband awake and asked him to go, and listened to a one-sided attempt at adult conversation with a toddler in the middle of the night. It didn't go very far. I put the baby down and went in for the Imma Rescue. That didn't go very far either. Barak was lying in his bed wailing, and I reached in to get him. He didn't get up. "Barak, do you want to come cuddle with Imma?" Miserable whimper. I started to pick him up and just as he left the mattress he started to throw up all over himself, me, the bed, the floor, etc., and that was when I realized he was hot enough to fry an egg on. The usual middle-of-the-night-sick-child routine followed: he was so, so feverish I gave him a quick bath (also to get some of the vomit off him, of course) and tried to get him to talk a little so I could make sure he was making sense (you know, in a two-year-old kind of way.) At one point I poured some warm water on him and he started to scream.
What is this? Surely some rare life-threatening water sensitivity illness meaning we should rush to the nearest emergency room...
"Barak, does it hurt or you just don't like it?"
"Just don't like it."
We cuddled for a while on the floor of the bathroom, until he let me leave him for the sixty seconds it took me to change out of my own vomitous attire. Tylenol, more snuggles in the rocking chair, and I put him to bed, where he stayed, asleep, till 10 am. He was pretty hot when he woke up, so I gave him some more Tylenol and a Pedialyte popsicle. But he was feeling better by now, so he had a better breakfast in mind.
"Barak, you can have a few Chex, but I'm not going to give you milk, okay? I don't want you to throw up again."
"I not gonna frow up."
"You're not going to throw up? Are you sure?"
"Gonna frow up tomorrow."
4. Later this morning I went on a quick Target run to get more Tylenol, baby wipes, yogurt and other necessities. I was feeling sorry for Barak so took a two-dollar turn down the toy aisle and got him a Matchbox helicopter. I told him when I got into the kitchen with all my bags that I had a present for him, and let him rummage around the bags for it. I'd pull out a box of garbage bags. "Is that the present?!" "No..." and so on. Eventually I pulled out the helicopter.
"Hock clopter! Issa hock clopter! Hock clopter go zoom inna sky!"
5. Last one, totally out of order. Earlier this week Barak found the feet for Mr. Potato Head in his toy box (well, toy milk crate, specifically, but it does the job). He brought them to me.
"No, sweetie, that's for Mr. Potato Head."
He tried. "Miterananeh?"
"Mister Potato Head."
"Mister Potato Head."
Pause. "Iss feet."
"Right, those are feet."
"Tomato need it."